It has been said that the Empress was equally furious at the contents of the letter, and the fact that it was written on paper torn off a letter-pad! But it was _not_ the question of the breach of etiquette which writing to the Sovereign on a letter-pad implied, it was the horrible accusations, the virulent animosity of the missive which at first angered the Empress, and afterwards grieved her. She cried bitterly when she told me. “Of what am I accused?” she said. “Gregory is dead. Surely people might leave me alone!” Princess Vasiltchikoff’s letter gave rise to much excitement; her portrait was in all the newspapers, and public opinion was divided for and against her. Another letter was sent to the Empress, this time anonymously, but it was equally reprehensible, and this letter and the preceding one caused the greatest indignation in the hospitals, as the officers who knew the Empress as she really was were very angry. Life in general was excessively difficult and painful, so much so that, when my husband arrived from Mourmansk, and asked Count Kapnist how things were going, the Count replied: “You’ll soon see for yourself, and you’ll be horrified. We have gone back to the days of Paul I. Ruin lies ahead of us.” The Empress saw a good many people at this time. Every Thursday there were musical evenings, where I met various friends--officers in the Artillery, the Emperor’s A.D.C., Linavitch, Count Rabindar and his wife (who was a faulty likeness of the Empress), the officers of the “Standart,” Prince Dolgouroki (who was afterwards murdered), Madame Voeikoff, the wife of the Commandant du Palais, Colonel Grotten, and many others. A Roumanian orchestra, under the direction of the famous Goulesko, played on these Thursdays, and the Empress derived great pleasure in listening to the really exquisite music. A huge fire was always burning in the salon; the Empress sat near it, and a little seat immediately behind her was arranged for my exclusive use. If I happened to arrive after the Empress was seated, she always indicated the vacant place with a gesture and a sweet smile. One evening, about a fortnight before the Revolution, when I was sitting in my usual place, listening to the Roumanian orchestra, I noticed that the Empress seemed unusually sad. So I ventured to bend forward and whisper, anxiously, “Oh, Madame, why are you so sad to-night?” The Empress turned and looked at me.... “Why am I sad, Lili?... I can’t really say, but the music depresses me.... I think my heart is broken.”